the Rebel
by edmelon
Summary: I tried to hold these secrets inside me; my mind's like a deadly disease. Death Rebel. one-shot.


_the Rebel_

 _._

 _I'm well acquainted with the villains that live in my head,_

 _they beg me to write them so they'll never die when I'm dead_

 _._

 _— control,_ halsey

 _._

* * *

 _._

It started off as nothing more than a nightmare.

At first he thought of it as merely a night terror — as an unwelcome intrusion; a horrible, uneasy sort of feeling that, though it struck him dead with fear right _now_ , would pass with the dawn of the sun, drowned in the daylight until all shadow dissipated and left his mind as clear and free as last he'd left it. That was the way with all things, was it not? Surely, it was common knowledge that nothing, no matter how disastrous, nor distressing, would remain forever? That all would one day pass?

But, loathe as he was to admit it… He soon came to realise that it was not to be.

Because, after all, when Ikuto awoke in the dead of night — gasping for breath, clawing at his sheets, sweat pooling about his forehead and creeping as a chill across his skin — drawn of a sudden from the well of some new nightmare… How could he ignore it?

How could he ignore the monster that still lurked inside his head?

How could he when still he dreamt of haunting melodies beneath the moonlight; of the plucking of strings and the desperate cries of broken dreams?

And it was only a matter of time until Ikuto had to admit that there was something wrong.

In his dreams the Death Rebel lived. In the dark, desolate places deep in the back of his mind he felt that unspeakable terror grow in strength, stirring within his consciousness. In his head under cover of nightfall, he thought at times he could still feel the unceasing waver of the tuning fork; still flinched at the bark of his stepfather's voice; he could still just _hear_ the fell swoop of his scythe and the wailing of eggs and—

 _"Ikuto—!"_

Ikuto gasped aloud, snapping bolt upright in bed, panting despite himself.

All around the room was dark and still — empty save for himself. Just as it always was. He looked around. His breath drew shaky. In trembling hands he held his head and tried to ignore the dampness of his palms as he grit his teeth and shook, trying with every fibre of his being not to snap; not to scream aloud as he rocked back and forth atop his bed, for in these relentless dreams he not only saw himself. Not only did he see the Rebel risen from the grave…

No…

Ikuto saw _her_.

Pink and gold. Light against dark. In her eyes he saw the glow of summer and the shine of the Lock rebounding in purest, blessed gold and throughout the day it was true that she shone as bright and beautiful as the sun itself. In the blissful respite of daylight, she was as light and free a soul as any he had ever known.

But in his dreams… In his dreams she was… _Different_.

In his dreams, those golden eyes were dull and vacant.

In his dreams, pink became awash with red.

When Ikuto closed his eyes and reluctantly slipped into an unrestful sleep, he saw her lips drawn back not in a smile — not in the shape of the laugh he had come to love — but in agony; in honest pain. A _searing_ pain. The kind of pain that would haunt his dreams til the end of his days.

His heart began to pound. His hands began to shake. Ikuto watched, detached and helpless, screaming aloud as the Rebel ran riot with that scythe in his hand and soon all he could do was watch in frantic horror as his vision grew dark, flecked with scarlet as blood spattered like raindrops against his cheek; pooled about his feet; saturated his very soul and all was so real — so convincingly _vivid_ — that sometimes Ikuto could not believe that these were merely fabrications of his own imagination, dug up and wrought from some old trauma. Sometimes, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he just _might_ have hurt her, yet since forgotten…

And soon enough after that, within every waking hour, morbid flashes invade his thoughts — gruesome and disturbing and chilling to the core — and Ikuto throws himself from the confines of his covers, suffocating, walking restlessly about his room and shaking his head, snarling at himself.

 _"Snap out of it."_ he says — that night and every night since. _"Snap out of it."_

He's hallucinating, he tells himself. He's riddled with nightmares and delusions, he reasons. He thinks that maybe some remnants of his stepfather's experiment must have lingered; that some freak wave from that god-forsaken tuning fork must have wrought some inner havoc on his brain…

Ikuto stops dead.

 _'No…'_ he thinks, for he can already feel the dread beginning to build in his chest; _'no, no, no…'_

But it is too late. The thought is there. It's that little hint of doubt blooming fast within his thoughts because suppose it _had_? Suppose something's gone wrong inside his head? Suppose that there really _is_ now some manic wave causing chaos in his thoughts..?

Where does that leave him?

What if he snaps?

What if the Rebel returns with a vengeance — with a darkness in his heart and a scythe in his hand and a sense of bloodlust renewed?

Ikuto swallows. He feels cold. And one night — after hours and hours of relentless pacing — Ikuto caves.

He _has_ to see her.

Silently, slipping from his room like a shadow and flying through the streets still in his bedclothes, Ikuto shimmies his way up to Amu's balcony and peers inside.

She's asleep. He can see her hair ( _'Pink, not red,'_ he tells himself; _'Pink, not red...'_ ) splayed out across the pillow; sees her covers rise and fall with the steady slight of her breathing. She's oblivious to his torment, lost to the world. Ikuto draws a shaky breath and sits atop the railings, his head in his hands, praying a silent thanks to the night.

She's alive. She's okay. He hasn't hurt her — hasn't gone berserk in his sleep and run riot like he used to all those years ago.

And that knowledge — that sight of her alive and well and sleeping soundly, unaware of his inner chaos — should be enough… Shouldn't it? At least, that's what Ikuto _thinks_...

But the nightmares don't stop.

And neither do the flashes of his own fabrication and soon it's not _just_ the nightmares he has to be afraid of, for these brief invasions… Well, they've ruined everything.

They persist now. Ikuto doesn't know how they've done it, but somehow the shadows in his head have learned to live in the light of day. Soon they're thriving. Soon he can barely face the thought of the world beyond; can hardly face the very notion of venturing beyond his bedroom walls because what's the _point_ , he thinks, when his every waking hour is utterly overcome with dread?

 _'I can't go out,'_ Ikuto thinks. _'I can't see her.'_

 _'Too dangerous…'_

 _'Too dangerous to see her…'_

For a moment, he feels angry;

 _'Bullshit!'_ the rational part of his brain interjects; _'There's nothing wrong with me!'_

But it doesn't matter. The dread — it follows his every move. The fear dictates his steps. When he finds himself around her, he cannot breathe. When Amu smiles, he cannot bear to look at it, for in his darkest dreams he has seen himself wipe that very smile from her face and the thought sends chills down his spine. When he walks, he feels as though something walks within his shadow, terrible and unseen, cowering in the dark space behind his back where the nightmares thrive.

Yes, Ikuto thinks… The Death Rebel lives. It lives in the gaps in his memory; it thrives on his despair; he feels it in the black cloud that shrouds his every thought (because that is how it feels to him, he realises — it feels as though a tumultuous, thundery squall occupies his mind, wreaking havoc, shielding all rational thought until all that remains are those that torment him; that he cannot _shake_ …).

But every time he feels the fear? The _dread_..? That is when the Rebel feels most real. That is when he feels the terror take hold the most. It's like a presence takes a grasp of him — he feels it in the chills that ravage his back, clutching onto his shoulders, like some sort of grotesque, ghastly cryptid sinking it's claws deep into his skin, implanting thoughts inside his head, springing upon him out of the blue when he leasts expects it…

The Rebel seems to like it when Amu is around. It seems to _flourish_ , growing positively fat as it digs a little deeper, submerges its talons just that _little_ bit farther until the terror touches his heart.

And Ikuto wants to kick himself; wants to send his fist through the wall; he wants to take whatever demon inhabits his head and shake it til it bears the same expression as the Amu he has hurt in his dreams. Every day becomes a battle. Every day and every night Ikuto feels as though he wrestles with his own warped consciousness, but logic doesn't work. All reason just _doesn't_ cut it because every second that he spends hunched over in the dark of his room, trying to _pound_ some sense into the mess inside his head, he finds himself falling deeper — finds the ritual consuming him; feels the cryptid sink its claws beneath his skull, cackling in triumph, dragging him further and further into the murky shadows that befuddle his brain from which he can find no respite, no _freedom_ —

"But I _haven't_ hurt her…" Ikuto tells himself one day, his chest heaving, his palms clammy and his heart pounding frantically in his chest — so fierce and frenzied that he feels it might burst. These thoughts are not his own, he thinks… He _knows_ that…

But it just doesn't stop. The thought will not be silenced.

"I've never hurt her… I would _never_ …"

There's a pause. A shaky breath. Ikuto looks about his room and calms his heart and almost kids himself the demon's gone until—

 _'But you could…'_ the thought says snidely. _'You_ could _hurt her…'_

And Ikuto groans aloud, rolls his head about his shoulders, his hands are twitching as he tries in vain to shake the creature from his back;

 _'That thought is not me,'_ he tells himself; _'that thought is_ not _me…'_

And again and again like a mantra, whispered into the quiet;

"It's not me."

"It's not real."

"It's not me…"

"I _didn't_ hurt her!"

But the thought persists;

 _'But how do I know?'_ it insists and Ikuto swallows thickly, _fearful_ , for the thought now echoes with his own voice.

Ikuto doesn't know.

Or, at least, he doesn't think so?

He shakes his head fiercely and stumbles back, sliding down to his knees against the wall and winding his fingers through his hair because there are too many blank spaces — too many gaps in his memory. How _can_ he know that the Death Rebel never touched her? Never _hurt_ her? Could never do it again?

 _'Suppose she's lying!'_ he thinks; _'Suppose she just hasn't admitted it! What if you have? What if she's_ scared _of you?"_

 _'No,'_ he counters; _'no, no, no, Amu wouldn't do that… Amu knows… I would never hurt her...'_

And, devilishly, the voice cackles once again:

 _'But how do you_ know _?'_

That's all it ever says.

But somehow it's enough.

And still when Amu frowns at him — when she holds her head high and narrows her eyes and puts on that adorable little pout that he loves so much — and she says;

 _"Ikuto!_ Where have you _been?"_

"Where have you been hiding?"

"You're not _avoiding_ me, are you?"

Ikuto catches that teasing twinkle in her gaze and for a moment his heart lifts.

He steps towards her.

For a moment he feels sure—

 _'I would never harm you, Amu…'_

And he means it.

But Ikuto should know by now… It's never that easy.

His brief respite is over. The claws sink deeper. He feels it — knows it's coming before the unwanted thought even echoes in his head — and Ikuto's blood runs cold.

 _'But you could…'_

The thought says.

 _'You_ could…'

What if he _does_?

Ikuto sighs. The Rebel is back.

And so it begins again.

.

* * *

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 _A/N_ : First of all, I feel like I missed the mark with this fic. This document is a mess, so I apologise.

I always thought intrusive thoughts were something Ikuto might struggle with after the whole Death Rebel saga, but I underestimated just how difficult it would be to put into words. Being absolutely crippled with ocd myself, I figured that even though I don't have the same kind of thoughts that Ikuto might have, describing the intrusive cycle + paranoia would be pretty simple.

It wasn't. They just always look so ridiculous when you write them down, yet they seem so real when you experience them? Idk. It's an inescapable cycle of knowing you're okay, yet still constantly doubting all rational thought. It's a wild ride.

I won't make a habit of making one-shots like this. I wanna try some fluffier ones. Plus I need to focus on my multi-chapter fics. You can blame said ocd for my lack of updates, but I'll try my best.

Until then ~


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